


The Queer Bar Begins

by ChasingRabbits



Series: Rock 'n' Roll Queer Bar [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Human, Blow Jobs, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Human Castiel, M/M, POV Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:12:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasingRabbits/pseuds/ChasingRabbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faced with tough times, Harvelle's Roadhouse in danger of going out of business. If they're going down, they may as well go down doing what's right.</p><p>Some bars are born into queerness, some bars achieve queerness, and some have queerness thrust upon them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queer Bar Begins

There’s something satisfying about making breakfast for someone, Dean finds. He started doing it a little while after he got here, probably as the only way he could say ‘thank you’ to Ellen and Jo for putting him up. Make some coffee, fry some bacon, scramble a couple eggs and _boom_ , instant satisfying morning.

Dean works the opening shift at the Roadhouse, from ten in the morning until six at night. Castiel works the graveyard shift at Walgreens, from midnight until eight in the morning. It’s the only thing he could get after he lost that waiting job, and the only shift they’ll give him for whatever ungodly reason.

When Dean gets home from work, Castiel is just waking up.

That’s how Dean started eating breakfast for dinner.

“Doesn’t that keep you up?” asks Castiel over his plate of eggs and bacon, watching as Dean drains the rest of his coffee.

“Nah,” Dean shakes his head. “Perks me up maybe, but I pride myself on my ability to fall asleep in any situation.”

“Good to know,” Castiel nods, sipping coffee from his own mug. “I was afraid I’d have to schedule my next orgy around your sleep schedule.”

Dean flips him off, and Cas laughs. His dark hair still sticks up every which way from sleep, his scruff still peppers his jaw. He’s every bit as gorgeous as he was the first breakfast they’d had together. It’s been almost a year and a half that they’ve been doing whatever it is that they’re doing and, shit, it’s sticking.

Dean assumed it would go down in a blaze of binge drinking and misery, like it had with Lisa; or not even get off the ground, like it had with virtually every other person Dean has ever had sex with. He’s a freak, he knows that—emotionally retarded without regard for anyone but himself.

And yet, Cas is still around.

It could be because Cas is flat broke on his own, and has nowhere to stay but with Ellen and Dean, that he’s making the best of his situation.

Castiel nudges Dean’s foot under the table with his own and gives him this smile that lights up his eyes, bringing Dean out of his head and back into the kitchen.

“Are you all right?” Cas asks, and Dean nods. Cas gives him a calculating look, but ultimately deems it an acceptable answer.

They finish their meal in relative silence, Castiel then breaking off to shower and Dean to open a beer and settle into the couch.

He wonders if he should be embarrassed by the domesticity. He’s twenty-two, for shit’s sake. People his age are getting hammered and staying out ‘til all hours sucking and fucking their youth away, and here’s Dean, watching _How It’s Made_ on a Saturday night with every intention of falling asleep right where he is.

When Castiel emerges, he’s half-dressed for work, white t-shirt tucked into his black slacks, clean shaven and wide awake. He sits beside Dean on the couch, close enough that their shoulders brush, and kicks up his feet on the coffee table.

“What are we watching?” he asks.

Dean doesn’t respond.

“Dean,” Castiel leans over and presses his lips into the soft spot underneath his jaw. Dean’s resolve falters just a little, and he leans into it. Cas removes the beer from Dean’s hand and sets it on the coffee table, and slides to the floor.

They don’t speak. Cas undoes Dean’s fly and takes Dean into his hand, and then into his mouth. Dean’s toes curl, because god, he will never be tired of this. Castiel’s earnest blue eyes flicking up to meet his as his head bobs in a calculated rhythm, his fingers brush over the sensitive spots on Dean’s stomach, over the insides of his thighs, up to his sac.  

Dean moans and lets his head fall back against the couch.

Fuck getting hammered and staying out ‘til all hours, this is pretty fuckin’ great.

At least, it is until the front door swings open and Dean hears Jo’s very adamant, “Oh, for the love of _god_ , Dean, mom said not on the couch!”

Dean and Cas leap away from each other, and to top it all off, Jo is not alone. With her stands a tall brunette in a bomber jacket, looking about as horrified as a person can get.

“I thought you were coming home tomorrow,” Dean grabs a pillow and presses it over his crotch, while Castiel tries to arrange himself in a way that makes it look like he didn’t just have a dick down his throat.

It’s not really working.

“We decided to just come tonight,” Jo uncovers her eyes. “Guys, this is Dorothy. Dorothy, this is my brother and his live-in.”

Dean flips her off.

“Pleased to meet the both of you,” Dorothy says, though she sounds unsure.

“I should go,” Castiel clears his throat. “Get ready for work.”

He retreats as quickly as Dean has ever seen, which is fine, but Dean is still stuck on the couch with half a stiffy and a pillow on his junk.

“Dean,” he introduces himself, sticking out a cordial hand.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll pass,” says Dorothy. She turns to Jo, “Where’s your bathroom?”

Dean offers her a smile as she walks by, and waits until she’s out of sight to remove the pillow and zip himself back up.

“ _Dean_ ,” Jo complains.

“I don’t wanna say it’s your fault for not assuming, but,” Dean doesn’t finish the accusation, because he doesn’t have to. Also, because Jo grabs his copy of this month’s _Hot Rod_ off of the coffee table and smacks him with it.

“Hey!”

“Do not mess this up for me, Dean Winchester,” she warns.

“Whoa, mess what up?” Dean cocks an eyebrow. Jo’s eyes flick from him toward the bathroom and then back again.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

“Joanna Beth, you sly dog,” he grins.

“Shut up,” Jo hits him again. “Don’t say a damn word, you hear me?”

“To who?”

“Anyone,” Jo clips. “It’s not your place to say. And I should be the one to tell my mom.”

“Two queers in one family,” Dean shakes his head, “Where did she go wrong?—ow! Stop hitting me!”

“Stop being a jackass!”

“Bitch!” Dean retaliates, his habitual response apparently the absolute Wrong Thing to Say.

In a matter of seconds Jo has him off the couch and on the floor, face smashed into the carpet, “Call me that again.”

“’the fuck, Jo!”

“Call me a bitch again, cocksucker,” she demands. She’s got his arm behind his back, and yeah, he could easily throw her off, but she’s got her knee on his back and he can’t really breathe. He has enough air in his lungs to say one more thing, and Dean knows it should be an apology. He knows that.

“In your fuckin’ dreams, rugmuncher,” is what comes out instead.

“You ass!” Jo leaps up, and Dean coughs a great big lungful of oxygen into his chest.

He rolls over and declares, “Harvelle’s Roadhouse and Carpet Cleaning services. Got a nice ring to it, huh?”

Before Jo can take the nut shot she is so poised for, Castiel and Dorothy come back out and pull their respective partners back toward them and away from each other.

“What in the hell are you two doing?” Dorothy demands.

“What, you never had siblings?” Dean works a crick out of his neck. Shit, he and Sam got into worse scuffs over much less.

He remembers then that Sam is a couple months older than Jo. That means he’s in college too, on spring break just like Jo probably, because of _course_ he went to college.  That kid was doing Dean’s math homework for him when he was in the fifth grade, there’s no telling how much further the little fucker’s come.

Dean’s chest seizes, eggs and bacon and coffee tilt-o-whirl in his gut and flush his face red.

Then he feels his face go green.

Wow, that hurts.

“I’m very sorry you came home when you did, Jo,” Dean hears Cas say. “And I’m very sorry that we didn’t abide by Ellen’s rule.

Dean stiffens as Castiel’s hand comes up to his shoulder, pressing this healing warmth into his tensed up muscles. The silence between the four of them is way too much for Dean, however, and he quickly pulls away.

He has to lie down for a few minutes.

His room is dark—his and Cas’ room now, he supposes—perfect for hiding. The distinct smell of gym shorts and corn chips is also gone, because Cas actually knows how to keep a tidy room and likes to keep a tidy room.

The sheets are even clean, though Dean doesn’t know that he’d call this smell “Fresh Meadow” or whatever the hell the detergent bottle said. Over the deafening silence in his little space, Dean can faintly hear Cas talking to Jo and Dorothy.

Dean doesn’t know how long he lies there, but he knows it’s not long enough to let him feel any better before Cas comes in.

“What,” he grunts.

“I wanted to make sure you’re all right,” says Cas, and he sits on the edge of the bed.

Dean’s bed that Cas now shares with him.

Their bed.

“Should I have Jo drive me to work?”

Dean groans and pushes himself up, “Nope. You’re driving yourself, come on.”

Driving with Cas isn’t exactly anyone’s favorite activity, but it’ll put him out of his head and away from Sam and dad. He slides out of bed and pulls on his boots, Castiel staring at him the entire time.

“What?”

“You’re acting strangely,” Castiel observes. “Why?”

“I’m not acting _strangely_ ,” Dean spits around the word.

Cas doesn’t relent, though. It’s not his style. He just keeps staring, and Dean rubs his hands over his face.

“I don’t wanna talk about it, Cas,” he groans when he realizes that Cas is still staring.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Cas replies. He remains silent as Dean laces up and ties his boots. His bright blue Walgreens shirt is still open and hangs off his shoulders, and for a brief flicker of a second, Dean wants nothing more than to crawl up inside him and just stay there.

“It’s okay that you miss Sam,” Cas says then, and Dean’s face falls.

“If you know what’s wrong, why the hell do you ask?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Castiel sighs, harsh edge of annoyance slicing through his words. “You always do this. You get pissed and then you start taking it out on me—”

“Fuck you!” Dean comes back, flames licking at the underside of his stomach, his blood running hot through him. He has to get out of here before he makes this worse.

“Fuckin’ have Jo drive you to work, I can’t do this right now.”

“Dean,” Castiel calls after him, but Dean’s already gone. He storms through the living room without so much as a ‘see you later’ and gets into his truck. When he gets like this, he just has to fucking drive, and he can’t just _fucking_ _drive_ because he’s got a shitty truck that gets virtually no mileage and has no working tape deck.

He ends up back at the Roadhouse, where Ellen tends bar and waits on a sparsely populated room. She looks confused to see Dean here at this time of night, but makes no comment as Dean hops over the bar and pours himself a drink.

“You gonna pay for that?” she asks as he tips back a large amount of whiskey.

“Take the five bucks out of my next paycheck,” he declares and smacks the glass down on the bar.

“Well, not that I don’t love it when pissy, alcoholic Dean Winchester rears his offensively handsome head,” she removes the bottle of whiskey from his hand. “But if you’re gonna self-destruct, I’m gonna have to ask you to do it somewhere else.”

“Fine,” Dean grumbles and leans back against the counter.  “I just can’t be home right now.”

“Obviously,” Ellen checks her watch. “Not that I’d want you by yourself anyway, if you’re feelin’ this bad. What happened?”

“Jo’s home,” Dean rubs his eyes. “Got me thinking about Sammy.”

“Ah,” Ellen nods. “Well, that is a predicament, isn’t it?”

“He’s gonna be nineteen soon,” Dean rubs his face.

“Y’know, I hate to be the one talkin’ sense—”

“Liar.”

“—but you can just call him, you know. Or look him up on the internet. Everyone’s doin’ that nowadays.”

“I don’t want to, though,” Dean shakes his head. “I ran out on my family, Ellen. I’m—fuck, I’m such a fucking fuck-up.”

Ellen looks at him, eyes softened and head cocked, and shit, Dean shouldn’t have fucking said anything.

“Dean, honey, you got out of a bad situation,” Ellen explains, as she has thousands of times. “That doesn’t make you a bad person. That actually puts you at least a step ahead of a lot of people.”

Dean groans and hangs his head.

“Honey, if you’re going around thinking you’re a bad person, or that you’re disloyal, you’re not,” Ellen rests a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got a good heart, but you’ve gotta remember that it’s not a crime to take care of yourself.”

That should not make him want to cry.

Nothing should make him want to cry.

But that makes him want to sob like a big fucking baby.

“I’m, uh,” he clears his throat. “I’m gonna go grab some pretzels from the back.”

_Shit, get it together, Winchester._

He grabs the tub of pretzels off of the top shelf in the back room and takes a few deep breaths before heading back out. One by one he refills the wooden pretzel bowls on the desserted tables, not even bothering to venture back to the bar yet. 

Ellen keeps giving him this  _look_. He doesn’t know what it is, but she gives it to him a lot and it unsettles the ever-loving fuck out of Dean. 

It’s just really hard to avoid eye-contact with someone when you’re two of about five people in a room. 

The door swings open and startles Dean out of his mind. In walks a man clad in all black, strutting up to the bar like he owns the goddamned place. 

“Crowley,” Ellen tosses her rag over her shoulder.

Aw fuck, it’s the goddamned landlord. Dean sets down the tub of pretzels and immediately goes to stand behind the bar with Ellen. 

“Ellen,” Crowley greets. “And you must be Dean. Delighted to finally put a face to the name.” 

 “Yes, he’s very pretty, Crowley,” Ellen moves them along. “What I wanna know is what could  _possibly_  bring you to Harvelle’s on a Friday night?” 

Crowley tuts and takes a seat across from them, “Such hostility for such a lively weekend crowd.”

He pointedly looks around at the deserted Roadhouse, and from where he stands Dean can feel the muscles tense in Ellen’s shoulders.

Conveniently, that’s the moment the two leathery old truckers down at the end of the bar set some money down on the counter and get up to leave.

“What can I do for you?” she manages to keep her voice level.

“My, my, it’s all business with you, isn’t it?” Crowley’s lips curl into a smile. Ellen does not return the sentiment, so Crowley raps his knuckles on the counter and continues, “Fine, as you’re so inclined to skip over the foreplay tonight…”

He looks up at her, “The rent, Ellen. You know full well it’s past due a week already.”

Ellen purses her lips and drums her fingernails against the counter. Dean’s dealt with calls from Crowley before; the guy hates late payments anyway, but this month’s late rent is piggybacking on last months late rent, and the month before that they’d barely gotten it to him in time.

“Times are a little lean right now, Crowley,” Ellen explains. “But we’ll get by. You know we’ll get by, we always do.”

“The last few months can’t be overlooked,” says Crowley, firmly. “You’ve promised changes with each hiccup and snafu, but these are the facts: if you have no patrons, you have no income; if have no income, you can’t pay your rent; and if you can’t pay your rent, you can’t stay here.”

“Whoa,” Dean interjects. “You can’t just kick us out.”

Crowley turns a raised brow on Dean and advises, “Let Mrs. Cunningham handle the grown up business, Arthur.” 

“Hey!”

“Dean, go back home,” Ellen cuts him off.

“Like hell I will,” Dean steps closer to her. He knows Ellen can hold her own, but Dean knows only enough about Crowley to know that he wouldn’t want to leave anyone alone with him.

“Not that I don’t love a gripping melodrama, but this is erring on painful,” Crowley turns to Dean. “A lease is a contract wherein the user agrees to pay the owner of an item for the temporary use of that item. In this case, the item is the building, the pay is your rent check. Since I have not received the rent check, I have every right to revoke the privilege of staying in my building.”

Dean lets out a harsh breath through his nostrils, but Ellen gives him a warning look that keeps his feet planted firmly on the rubber mat behind the bar.

“End of the month, Ellen,” Crowley confirms and stands.

“Hey man, you’re not dealing with dollars and cents here, you’re dealing with people,” Dean argues. “What the hell are we supposed to do?”

Already at the door, Crowley turns back to Dean and lifts his eyebrows.

And then he looks him up and down, and with an air of absolute certainty says, “Go-go boy. They call it a ‘money-maker’ for a reason, don’t they?”

The door shuts with a deafening ‘click’, and both Ellen and Dean let out large lungfuls of air.

“Ellen, I—“

“Not a word, Dean,” she warns and throws her rag down on the counter.  “Just get home like I told you to, all right? I’ll clean up here, hon, don’t worry about it.”

Dean wants to fight back, but he knows it’s no use. If Ellen tells you not to worry about it, you’d better not worry about it, or she’ll kick your ass.

So, Dean grabs his keys out of his pocket, promises to drive safely, and gets his ass back home.

Like Ellen told him to.

**oo**

It’s eight-thirty when Cas gets home.

Dean is awake. He hates himself for it, but he’s awake. He can’t get his mind to quiet after everything that happened last night—every time he thinks he’s hit the final lull, everything starts back up again. All he can hear is Crowley’s voice, all he can see is Ellen’s face, the defeat wilting her muscles.

And now Cas just stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching Dean. 

“Hey,” Dean shifts.

“Hi,” Castiel murmurs. “Can I come in?”

Dean lets out a sigh and flops back onto the bed, “Don’t pull this shit, please. I’m fucking exhausted, I don’t need the passive-aggressive bullshit.”

“It’s not passive-aggressive,” Castiel comments back. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.”

Dean groans and rolls over, and begs, begs, _begs_ whoever’s listening to just put him out of his misery.

Castiel’s weight dips the mattress. He doesn’t say anything, but Dean can hear him toe off his shoes and slip his shirt off of his shoulders. Even as Castiel curls up beside him, Dean finds the fire under his skin go cold. He rolls and sees Castiel’s back facing him, probably trying to ‘give him his privacy’.

He wants to be furious. He wants to leap out of bed and just get his fucking day started, but his muscles ache and his head pounds. His heart hammers hard and his gut churns and fuck this, on top of everything else he’s obviously pissed off Cas.

Dean rolls over into Cas’ body heat, tentatively reaching for Cas’ shoulder.

Wordlessly, Cas shifts so that Dean can tuck himself under his arm and wrap himself around him. Cas presses his lips to the top of Dean’s head.

“Sorry,” is all Dean can come up with.

“I know,” Cas hums, and Dean hangs on tighter.

He has no idea why or how Cas deals with him.

Cas’ heart thuds a steady rhythm into Dean’s ear. He strokes Dean’s hair and minutes stretch on. His presence is comforting, but not enough to lull Dean into drifting off like a normal person.

“I don’t miss my family,” Cas says then. “I forget that you do sometimes. I apologize for not being more conscientious of your feelings.”

“Ugh,” Dean groans into Castiel’s chest. “Stow the feelings shit, I just wanna sleep.”

“Perhaps it’s because I was never made to believe I had to look out for anyone,” Cas continues. “Maybe that’s the perk of being the youngest: everyone watches out for you.”

“I thought you and Gabe were twins,” Dean frowns.

“Eleven months apart,” Castiel yawns. “We were close growing up, but I think we both wanted out of there so badly that we understood what had to be done had to be done. It was very much an ‘everyone for themselves’ situation.”

“Yeah, that’s just fuckin’ weird to me, man,” Dean strokes the pads of his fingers over the warm white cotton that stretches over Cas’ chest. “All I ever heard from my old man was ‘look after your brother; a kid needs someone to look after him’.”

“So who looked after you?” asks Cas.

Dean’s stomach does a painful flip, and he burrows his face further into Cas’ shirt.

“Oh,” Cas realizes.

“Everything was about Sam,” Dean mutters. “Ever since our mom died, that’s all my dad ever cared about. Sam was so smart, Sam was going to do amazing things.”

Dean pushes himself up then, looking down at Cas’ worn down, sleepy face.

“After my mom died, my dad started making these home movies,” he says. “There’s one of me and Sammy, and Sammy was probably a year old? We’re playing in the back yard, and Sam’s splashing in this puddle. My dad’s going fuckin’ ape-shit over it, thinks it’s the goddamndest thing he’s ever seen. The kid’s sucking muddy water off his hands and my dad can’t stop laughing.

“So what do I do? You see me come into the shot and tell my dad I had something really cool to show him, whatever the fuck that was when I was five, and the jagoff tells me to get out of the shot ‘cause I’m blocking Sammy.”

“Dean,” Cas says, face softened by this look of pity that Dean absolutely hates.

“Sam’s so fucking smart, Sam’s so fucking great,” Dean sits up, pulling his knees to his chest. “Sam’s so fucking normal. And then there’s me.”

“And then there’s you,” Cas reaches up and puts a hand on his knee. “Smart and great. A far cry from normal, maybe, but normal is overrated, if you ask me. I like being a freak.”

“You’re not a freak,” Dean rests his chin on his knees, pointedly avoiding eye contact. “You graduated high school, you went to college, you’re handsome and poised and well-read and you smell good… and you’re fuckin’ amazing, and I’m just a goddamned runaway with a smart mouth.”

Castiel sits up beside him.

“Dean, I wouldn’t be who I am right now if it wasn’t for you,” he reaches over and strokes the backs of his fingers over the fine hairs on Dean’s temple. “Never ever think that you’re ‘just’ anything. You’re smart too, and funny, and so, so caring--”

Dean pushes himself off the bed and away from Castiel’s touch.

“What the fuck good is that?” he steadies himself against the dresser. A head rush from standing up too fast—fuck, he needs to be asleep right now, but his mouth won’t stop running. “What the fuck good is that when I left my little brother with our fuckin’ booze hound dad? What the fuck good is that when I was supposed to help Ellen run the bar, and instead only helped her get it shut down? What the fuck good is being funny and smart and caring if I can’t even help the goddamned people I love?”

He’s afraid to look, because he knows Cas is just staring up at him with his big blue eyes, waiting for him to say something more. Dean can’t, though. He’s finished with this. He’s finished with feeling stripped naked and split open, guts pouring out and heart exposed and still beating for all the world to see.

“Dean,” Cas stands and walks tentatively over to him. He tests with one touch, just a brush of his hand against Dean’s jaw.

Dean leans into it, so Cas cups his face in both hands and brings his lips to Dean’s forehead.

“You can’t save everyone, stud,” he hums. The nickname is stupid, and shouldn’t make Dean feel any better, but it rolls so perfectly out of Cas’ mouth that it melts Dean like a pat of butter. Cas kisses him on the lips before he continues, “I know you’d like to, but it’s unrealistic. We can’t save everyone we’d like. That just doesn’t happen.”

“I’ll make it happen,” Dean frowns, and wraps his arms around Cas’ waist. He hides his face in the crook of his neck, “I will be a fucking superhero if it kills me.”

“The only person you can really save is yourself, Dean,” Cas’ hands rub big, soothing circles over his back. “Every other save is just icing on the cake.”

“Whipped cream on the pie,” Dean corrects and pulls back. He’s not crying, but his nose has stuffed up like he’s about to start. “Thanks, Cas.”

Cas smiles, and then stifles another yawn.

“C’mere,” he murmurs and pulls Dean back down into bed. They resume their earlier position, Dean pressed flush against Cas, the both of them holding each other close. As they settle, Cas squeezes Dean’s shoulder and says, “While you look out for everyone else, I’ll look out for you. Deal?”

Dean grips Cas tightly and nods, “Deal.”

**oo**

Sleep helps.

Slow, lazy sex when they wake up helps even more.

When they finally make it out of their room and up to the Roadhouse, Jo and Dorothy are already there. Ellen tends bar and Jo waits on a few tables. Thankfully more people populate the place tonight. There are some of their regular crowd, men of varying shapes and sizes, all sporting trucker caps and worn out denim jackets, but there are also quite a few of the college crowd around too.

Harvelle’s isn’t exactly on the map, but they have a sort of cult following at UNL. That’s how Cas wound up here to begin with—Balthazar had known someone who’d heard someone say that the Roadhouse was a nice, quiet place to come to just kick back and have a beer.

Cas pointedly avoids the semi-large group of college dudes back in the corner and sits beside Dorothy at the bar, while Dean hops behind it and grabs an apron.

“I told you not to do that while we got people here,” Ellen chastises.

“Already done,” Dean shrugs. “Any sign of Satan tonight?”

“Crowley isn’t Satan, Dean,” Ellen pours some scotch into a glass of soda. “Don’t give the man that much credit, good Lord. Now, I’m as righteously pissed as you are, but some things we can’t change. We broke an agreement, he’s got every right to do what he’s doin’. In the mean time, the bathroom sink’s stopped up, would you go take care of it?”

Dean wants to argue, to insist that they fight back with everything they have, but Castiel catches his eye and just shakes his head. So, Dean may as well make himself useful and fix the damn sink, like Ellen asked.

He fixes the sink, changes a flickering light bulb in the back room, and restocks all of the liquor bottles behind the bar.

Because he refuses to treat the job any differently, even though it’s coming to an end.

Dorothy gets up to use the bathroom, and Cas leans over the bar to Dean.

“They hike together, Dean,” he just says, and Dean snorts. “They hike and go to Farmer’s market and Dorothy is a Women’s Studies major. It’s every stereotype ever, I’m exhausted.”

Dean laughs and pushes his sweaty hair off of his forehead.

“I won’t be out-stereotyped,” he says. “Tomorrow we’re getting a prissy little dog, some matching sweaters and Capri pants, and… we’ll learn about makeup and hair and shit so we can talk about it nonstop.”

“I’ll start planning weddings,” Cas suggests. “And you can be a well-respected food critic.”

“Instant gay power couple,” Dean agrees, laughing too hard to keep it going. Cas laughs back, though it’s short-lived when a raucous round of laughter sounds from the back corner of the room, followed by a very quick, very loud, “Fuck off!” from Jo.

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that,” Dean hears one of the guys. Dorothy, Ellen, Dean, and Cas all turn their attention to the scene, and see Jo covering up her chest with her serving tray.

“Yeah, we’re just bein’ friendly,” another guy chimes in.

“You’re not being friendly,” Jo spits back. Before Dean can help himself, he heads over, despite Ellen telling him to hang back.

“There a problem, here?” he asks. They’re a bunch of typical frat boy assholes, the kind you’d rather not share your oxygen with, meaty and muscular and overflowing with testosterone.

It puts Dean on edge, remembering how similarly he once carried himself: chest out, shoulders squared, because that’s what tough, _real_ men did.

“You her boyfriend or something?” asks one of the guys.

“No, I’m her brother,” Dean scowls. “And it shouldn’t take me coming over here for you asshats to realize you’re being goddamned disrespectful.”

Then comes a chorus of ‘ _ooh’s_ that makes Dean roll his eyes.

“Dean, come on,” Jo lays a hand on his bicep. “Don’t waste your time.”

“Aw, come on sweetheart, why you gotta be that way?”

“Because I’m not interested!” Jo shouts and pulls Dean back to the bar.

“Those little shits,” Ellen shakes her head, out in front of the bar after waiting on the other patrons.

“It’s fine, mom,” Jo rolls her eyes. “Will everyone just put their pieces away? I’m fine. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before, trust me.”

“Damn scum-suckers,” Dorothy seethes. “I’ll brain every last one of ‘em.”

“Nobody’s hurting anyone,” Jo puts up her hands. “For the love of God, will you all just cool it? They’ll pay, they’ll leave, and if they cause any trouble, I got a pocket knife and a borderline homicidal will to live.”

The best thing about Jo, Dean decides, is that he never has to worry about her. Look out for her, sure, but she can hold her own without question.

“Hey, honey!” one of the guys calls, and Jo looks back. “You look just as good from behind, you know?”

“I’m gay!” she shouts back, and Dean snorts.

“Aw, I bet I can change that,” the guy laughs. “You just ain’t had a good dicking yet, that’s all.”

“That’s it,” Dean decides and leaps back over the bar. He stalks over to the group of guys, picks up Mr. Good-Dicking by the collar of his shirt and punches him right in the nose.

“Dean!” he hears Ellen shout, but the next couple of seconds are such a blur he can’t react. The pack of frat boys descends on him before he knows what to do with himself, and his fists start flying every way they can go.

Thank God Cas is quick on his feet and has been trained in hand-to-dickbag-bro combat, having made it out of having three older brothers alive.

Except Cas pulls him away from the flurry of fists and elbows and adrenaline instead of assisting him in combat. While disappointing, it’s probably good that Cas is at least a little level-headed.

“You broke his nose, fuckwad!” calls one of the guys.

“He broke my faith in humanity,” Dean shoots back. “Not even close to an even trade-off.”

“Fuck you, faggot!”

Dean shrugs away from Cas and calls, “Yeah, just remember I’m the faggot broke your fucking nose, dickhole.”

He then flips the frat dicks the bird.

“Jesus, Dean,” Castiel mutters and grabs his hand, inspecting. “Come on, let’s put some ice on this.”

It doesn’t take long for Mr. Good-Dicking and the Douchebag Gang to get out after Ellen threatens to call the cops on every last one of them.

Dean lets Cas fill a baggie with ice and press it to his knuckles.

Cas’ words echo in his ears, _“you can’t save everybody_.”

Horse shit.

“Dean, you’re a damn fool,” Ellen shakes her head. “Damn, good-hearted fool.”

“And you’re just gonna encourage that?” slurs one of the nearby patrons. He’s drunk as all hell, Dean can pretty confidently say.

“Ed,” Ellen warns.

“Nah, Ellen,” Ed shakes his head. “You gays always gotta make it about you, don’t you? Always gotta shove it in everyone else’s faces that you’re here and your queer and we all better just deal with it.”

Ellen purses her lips and puts a hand on her hip.

“Ed, you got ‘til the count of thirty to settle your tab and get the hell out of here,” she says, and then turns to the rest of the Roadhouse. “That goes for the rest of you. Anyone’s got a problem with gays, lesbians, bisexuals, _transsexuals_ , and anyone else I may have missed? Get up, get your stuff, pay your tab and get the hell out. You’re not welcome here anymore.”

They actually have to drag Ed out, but for the most part nobody else seems to care one way or the other about Ellen’s announcement.

Except, of course, Jo.

“Mom, what the hell?”

Ellen shrugs and sighs, “If we’re goin’ down, we’re goin’ down in the brightest blaze of glory the world’s ever seen.”

**oo**

Dean and Castiel jerk awake to the sound of Cas’ phone ringing, vibrating so violently that it almost buzzes right off the nightstand. Castiel pats around and finally makes contact.

“Answer the goddamned thing,” Dean grunts, wanting to sink further into the mattress.

“Balthazar?”

Oh, great.

Dean grabs Cas’ pillow out from under his head and presses it firmly to his ear, sandwiching his head in the hopes that he’ll be able to drown out enough of the impending harangue.

“I can’t hear you, slow down,” Cas sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes. And then there’s much too long of a pause before Castiel asks, “How did you hear about that?”

He nudges Dean, pulling the pillow from over his head.

“Man,” Dean groans. “What the hell?”

“Apparently it’s spreading like wildfire that a homophobic jackass got his ass handed to him last night at Harvelle’s,” Castiel glares pointedly at him.

“Where?” Dean sits up and leans close to the phone, “Where is it spreading like wildfire, you poncey pain in my ass?”

“Around campus,” Castiel shoves Dean. “Balthazar is very involved with the on campus queer community.”

Dean can clearly hear Balthazar on the other end, “Heavens, love, you make it sound like such a downer.”

“It is a downer,” Dean argues back and rests his head in Cas’ lap. He’s got half a morning stiffy that Dean would like very much to play with—anything to get him off the phone with Nebraska’s Most Irritating.

Dean pulls down the waistband of Cas’ boxers and dips his hand inside, working in soft, barely there strokes before he dips and takes Cas into his mouth. Castiel sucks in a breath above him, but doesn’t tell Dean to knock it off, which he’s had to do before.

“No, I’m fine,” Cas swallows hard. A pause and then a very shameful, “Yes, that is the current situation.”

Dean sucks Cas all the way down then, and delights when he drops the phone into their tangled up sheets. Dean grabs it and hangs up. He’s made an executive decision for the morning: he is going to worship Cas’ cock and he is going to do it without any goddamned distractions.

He glances up at Cas through his eyelashes and, fuck, Cas is staring right back down at him. Dean hums, pleased but unable to really smile, and revels in the sounds that rumble low in Castiel’s chest.

He lets himself come in Dean’s mouth.

He lets Dean tongue and finger-fuck him open.

He lets Dean slip inside him and press their bodies close, because that’s what he needs right now. He needs Castiel wrapped around him, anchoring him to this moment. 

And maybe it’s the both of them that need an entire Sunday to themselves and their bed, sleeping and making out and that slow, mind-numbing kind of sex that leaves them both brain-dead and too fucked-out to move.

When they do finally emerge, it’s to make a supply run. They don’t bother showering, which is probably disgusting, because Dean can smell the sex stuck in their hair and on their skin, but neither of them gives a fuck.

Cas does at least request that they go to a Walgreens different from the one at which he’s employed, but that’s about the extent of their shame. Dean grabs a hand basket and lines the bottom with condoms and lube.

“Cas,” Dean calls over the aisles, to where Castiel has become distracted by the magazine rack. He’s got his nose buried in some gossip rag, and so Dean calls again, “Hey, good-lookin’.”

Cas does look up at that, as does a rotund older woman in a monochromatic sweatsuit, and Dean shakes his head.

“What?” Cas asks.

“What kinda Gatorade you want?”

“Grape,” Cas replies, going back to his magazine. Dean makes a gagging noise, to which Cas replies with a quick flourish of his middle finger.

The affection in Dean’s chest at that moment becomes astronomical, and he has to turn and grab their drinks before he pulls Castiel into a kiss right in the middle of a drugstore.

He also grabs himself a beer, because goddamn, a beer sounds like Heaven right now.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Lincoln’s own Million Dollar Baby.”

Dean turns and startles. Crowley stands directly behind him, hands tucked in the pockets of his black coat, looking as though there is no other place be could possibly want to be at this moment in time.

“How’d you know about that?” asks Dean.

“It’s my business to know what goes on in my buildings,” Crowley replies evenly. “And should there happen to be a rumor flitting about amongst my students concerning my building and its tenants, I make it a point to investigate.”

“Your students?” Dean raises his eyebrow.

“You’ve never bothered to learn anything about your landlord?” asks Crowley.

“Didn’t think you were really supposed to,” Dean frowns.

“Oh, you should always know the very basics about with whom you’re doing business,” Crowley shakes his head. “Makes it all the more interesting.”

“I’m sorry, I should’ve guessed you were a professor of Dickbagology,” Dean comes back, and Crowley’s face contorts with abject disgust.

“It’s painful knowing that that was the _best_ you could come up with,” he rubs his temples. “I am a professor of Economics at UNL, and apart from helping brain-dead booze-soaked frat boys in their ascent to a life of mid-level management and mediocrity, I am also the faculty adviser for an organization of queer students who happen to think that what happened at Harvelle’s was a bloody _affirmation_. Naturally, I didn’t mention that the young man in question who so valiantly took down the enemy was more likely than anything acting on foolhardy instinct that didn’t _quite_ breed out of his Neanderthal brain.”

Crowley’s speech dances in circles around Dean, so dizzying that he almost forgets he can open his mouth and talk back if he so wishes.

“Now, if you’re done being a petulant little twat, I have something I would like to discuss with you.”

He doesn’t get a chance, though. Castiel comes up from behind Dean and sets a bag of peanut M&Ms and a box of Cheez-Its into the basket.

“I’m ready,” he declares.

“Kinda in the middle of somethin’ here, Cas,” Dean clears his throat.

Castiel looks up then, and recognition settles on his face.

“Professor Crowley?”

“Well, well, Castiel,” Crowley smirks, folding his arms over his chest. “Isn’t this a cozy scene? When Balthazar told me he had insider information on the incident last night, I never would have guessed he’d meant you.”

“Oh, come on,” Dean mutters to Cas. “When the hell did you have time to tell Balthazar about any of that?”

“You were asleep, I was bored,” Castiel shrugs. “Balthazar is very insistent.”

“This is touching,” Crowley grins. “Well, this makes what I’m about to say all the more rich.”

“Thanks, but we’ve gotta get going,” Dean wants so desperately to slip his hand in Castiel’s and tug them both away from what just became one of the most awkward situations he has ever experienced.

Instead, he just turns on his heel and walks away. Not the most dignified exit, but he’s definitely made worse.

“Queer bar,” Crowley calls after him, and Dean goes stalk still. Thankfully, nobody is in the aisle with them, but that was loud enough to hear at least on the other side of the juices and mixers. Dean turns back around and sees Cas moved to follow him, but has also stopped and turned to face Crowley.

“What?” Dean finally asks.

Crowley shrugs, “No secret that we’re lacking one around here. I’d be willing to give the Roadhouse another chance if it were to serve as a much-needed haven for the local queer crowd. If done properly, the reform could bring in business and save your collective asses.”

Before Dean can tell Crowley to get bent, Castiel snaps his fingers.

“That,” he nods. “That’s actually brilliant.”

“Yes, well aware of that,” Crowley confirms.

Dean scoffs.

It wasn’t _that_ brilliant.

“Of course, you would have to get Ellen on board,” says Crowley. “Any business owner would have trepidations about shifting focus. However, as I’m sure you gentlemen can imagine, this is a timed offer, gentlemen. If she doesn’t agree, I’ll have to know by the end of the week.”

“Why by the end of the week?” asks Dean.

Crowley turns an icy gaze on him and replies, “Because I fucking said so.”

He’s gone after that, and Dean lets out a small breath of relief.

“We have to tell Ellen,” Cas says immediately.

“Why?” Dean scowls and starts making his way back up to the cash register. “’cause Crowley _said so_?”

“No,” Cas says very carefully. “Because it was a good idea, Dean. Can you imagine? If it were as successful as it has the potential to be, that would mean you could pay rent, the place would make a profit—Ellen could even afford to hire a few more people, give you and her some time off.”

The worst part about the whole thing is that it does sound like a good idea. It sounds fucking awesome, actually. The crowd at the Roadhouse now is stale, dull… Not that Dean needs a hell of a nightlife to jazz the place up, but it’d be nice to have a healthy crowd every once in a while.

And it would be even nicer to have someone else working there, to know that, if he wanted—if Ellen wanted—they could have a day off every once in a while.

He looks back at Cas and sees him giving him that blank, earnest face.

“Ugh, fine,” Dean concedes. “We’ll talk to her about it.”

**oo**

“A what bar?” Ellen asks.

“A queer bar,” Castiel explains. He didn’t even wait; the second they got in the door, Castiel all but jumped on Ellen, regurgitating almost word for word their interaction with Crowley. He couldn’t stop talking the entire goddamned way home. Dean is officially done hearing about how fucking _brilliant_ Crowley is.

He untwists the cap of his Gatorade and takes a hefty swig.

There is nearly not enough alcohol as there needs to be in there.

“Y’all right there, Dean?” Ellen raises an eyebrow, and Dean nods. He catches Jo’s eye over the dinner table and just shakes his head, a silent _don’t ask_.

“And he’d let us keep runnin’?” she turns back to Cas.

“He said it himself, there’s a void that needs to be filled.”

“Aw, c’mon, Cas,” Dean groans. “Phrasing.”

“What phrasing?” Cas furrows his brow, and Dean rolls his eyes.

Ellen crosses her arms over her chest and leans back in her chair.

“Mom, that’d actually be really amazing,” Jo chimes in. “Think about it—you’d be offering a safe haven to a bunch of people who really need it.”

“And at this point, you have nothing left to lose,” Castiel argues.

Ellen lets out a breath, nodding before she looks up at Dean and asks, “What do you think, kid?”

Dean blinks.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Ellen sits up. “You’re my second in command here, baby. You gotta let me know what you’re thinkin’.”

Dean swallows hard as all eyes land on him. Ellen and Jo, Dorothy and Cas, all staring at him, waiting for him to respond. He shifts and shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweater.

“Makes sense economically, or whatever,” he looks down at his shoes.

“Yeah, but do you wanna do it?” she asks. “I need a yes from you before I do anything.”

Dean looks at Cas, and at Jo, and draws in a shaky breath.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Yeah, let’s do it.” 


End file.
